


This is Not Catharsis (My Blood is Boiling)

by pyalgroundblz (acidtonguejenny)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gen, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidtonguejenny/pseuds/pyalgroundblz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Names Sarah Diaz, Michael Alves, DeAndra Clarke mean anything to you?" He can picture himself with a fist in the guy's collar too easily, snarling into that hood, but Lance has seen too many guys on the force let that kind of anger eat them alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Not Catharsis (My Blood is Boiling)

Lance knows he'll meet the vigilante properly someday, look the little smartass in the eye before the boys haul him in. He's got a speech and a few lines already ready to go, but has promised himself that he'll only give the kid a look. No need to let his ego run unchecked.

He didn't picture this.

The kid is clearly hurt hunched over his gut like that, spots of dark on a biceps and above one knee. He's fallen in an odd slump, like he failed to scale the wall and hasn't moved since he dropped. Lance kneels in front of him, carefully out of arm's reach…For what good it'll do him, if the Man of Many Projectiles suddenly springs into action.

"Hey Robin Hood," He says, swatting at the garbage can the kid's propped against. "You're looking a little green, pal."

He whistles, and leans in for a look when the vigilante doesn't stir. Beneath the hood is murky, swamp-gas darkness, and he can't see past the end of a straight nose. The artists have been drawing enough chins and noses as of late.

Lance is reaching for the hood when the kid makes noise, moves away weakly. There's more damage there then two bullet wounds, much as that is already. Weeks of PT. 

"Well guy, what was it? Get bent over a Toyota by some asshole?" Lance flicks the edge of the hood, chuckles at the expected shudder and begins to search the man. Pulls knives upon knives from the folds of his swanky outfit, a first-aid kit, explosives and remote triggers. The bow and quiver are conspicuously missing. Weapons put safely to the side, alleyway casually searched, he radios for a few guys and an ambulance.

The hood's silent as they load him into the back. Lance isn't sure if he's unconscious or playing possum, but twenty-four years into this he knows enough to force his way into the back of the vehicle.

"This guy's body count could very likely be in the dozens. You want him coming awake back here on Fifth St.?"

The EMT doesn't present much argument after that, and soon she's in the passenger seat and they're off.

Lance watches the kid like a hawk, adapting his speech for the new circumstances. They both rock with the truck as the other EMT gets happy with his brakes. 

"I got you," He begins. Good a start as any. Hood doesn't twitch.

"You know…the people you've taken down, I'd bet my left nut you think you're doing good. Doing the world a favor, outta be on a coin, huh? 

"Hate to break it to you, asshole, but people are scared of you."

The kid's wearing Kevlar, he'd noticed earlier, searching for the knives. Good stuff, expensive stuff, things he practically has to beg the city for for his boys. It'll probably shave a week or two off that PT.

"Names Sarah Diaz, Michael Alves, DeAndra Clarke mean anything to you?"

Nothing.

"How about Theodore Diaz? His mom says he's turning six next month. Too bad his daddy won't be there. Maybe he's got an uncle or something who'll take over hotdog duty. Grandpa, maybe. They looked like a close family, lotta photos on the walls. Do you care?"

Lance pats the evidence bag by his leg, holding it steady as they take a sharp left. "They give licenses to anybody nowadays," he gripes at the kid, and he thinks for a moment before beginning again.

"Scott Loue and Michael Alves had just booked a church." He clicks his tongue. "Don't remember the date Alves told me. He was pretty excited his family was coming though. DeAndra's little brother had just gotten his degree. I hate fuckers like you."

He can picture himself with a fist in the guy's collar too easily, snarling into that hood, but Lance has seen too many guys on the force let that kind of anger eat them alive, and he settles for digging his fingers into his thigh. 

"You seem like a smart guy, asshole. You might have been able to do some good if you had any fucking _respect_. I know kids like you. Makes me weep for the future."

When Lance looks again, the hood has turned ever so slightly in his direction.

"Listening now, are you?"

There is no response, verbal or otherwise.

"A guy like you killed my daughter. _Selfish_ ," he fights to keep the snarl out of his voice. "In it for the instant gratification. Disrespectful, think you know better than us guys been doing it for years. If anyone gets to take those bloodsuckers down, _it's us_." 

The hood still doesn't speak, doesn't budge, but Lance knows he's awake now. Probably has been most of the ride. Starling Gen can't be far away now.

Lance has worked himself up. Broken his promise. _No speeches, no one-liners. You are not John McClane or Oliver fucking Queen._

He knows the rules. He honors them.

"Better wrap this up." He forces himself to affect a casual sigh. Down boy. "Guess I'll leave you with this: I'm not sorry you're off the streets. The penthouse assholes were hurting people, we all know that, but they were just thieves. You're a fucking murderer, kid."

He steps out of the ambulance before it stops rolling and waits for the cruiser coming up to pull in beside him. His partner's halfway through the first of the paperwork, god love him. He tenses when he hears the EMTs' doors slamming.

He turns when one of them shouts.

Lance is not at all surprised by the empty stretcher, not even angry. Just tired.

"Learn something, kid." He says, suddenly feeling the thinness of his soles, itch of his holster. 

"What?"

"Nothing. Gimme that, it's my turn to do reports."

**Author's Note:**

> ...this was supposed to be h/c identity porn. How in the.


End file.
